Outside the Law
by Rosaria Marie
Summary: 20-year-old Robin of Locksley converses with his father, Lord Aelfric Locksley, about the changing times, future dangers, and the true meaning of the law. (An excerpt from a Robin Hood retelling series of novels-in-progress.)


**Outside the Law**

Robin slunk up the stairs, trying hard not to let his teeth chatter together as he passed by his father's study. He had learned to walk like an animal in the woods, without rustling a leaf or snapping a twig. But old Lord Locksley had something of a sixth sense about such things. Nearly two decades old, and Robin still felt like a little boy sometimes when he came home late, not wanting to be caught and sent to bed without supper.

"Cold enough in the woods for ya at this ungodly hour, eh?" came the old man's voice, his face still buried in his the account scrolls. "I know that's where you've been."

Robin exhaled and turned to him. "Well, thank God you're not a forester at least. How could a poor poacher endure with you on the scent?"

"I'm serious, boy. You take too many risks out there. The tides are changing now. Lackland's men are clamping down, watching everything that moves. What would you do without my name to protect you? And even that can't last forever."

Robin adjusted his bow on his shoulder and moved towards his father's desk. "The tenants still need red meat, especially with winter coming on. It's better for one man to take the risk for the many. How else can we provide for our own?"

"There's little to be done about that," his father stated dismally, gazing down at the accounts in front of him.

"I know it's not your fault," Robin conceded. "These fiends just keep pressing you, pressing us all, waiting for us to break. But we still have our people to do right by. We're as much bound to them as them to us, so you always taught me."

"But you're my son," he reminded him, standing up resolutely. "I've watched you grow up into the man you've become and have great hopes the lord you'll be when I'm dead and gone. I've trained you in what you know, both in books and at arms. You're a fighter, a survivor, both with wits and weaponry. I've watched you match my skill with the sword and exceed it with the longbow."

"That's not true, father," Robin countered lightly. "We broke a little less than even the last time we tried at the target, with you in the lead."

Lord Locksley smirked. "Yes…because you wanted me to save face in front of the other nobles."

"Are you accusing me of throwing a fair test of arms?" his son exclaimed, feigning shock, but only further confirming his father's suspicions.

The old man shook his head indulgently. "And this is one more thing which I'm grateful for about you. A youth of your ability might easily let it go to his head, let it rule over him. But there is something you have that's stronger than your skill, yea, even your cunning…"

"Good teeth?" Robin twitted.

The lord slapped a hand on his shoulder as an affectionate rebuff. "Nah, lad. It's your compassion. It's always been the chief thing about you, even as a child. You see all people as worth your while, especially the ones who struggle, who get passed by on the other side. You'll do what you can to help them, even at great risk, at great cost."

Robin shrugged. "Did you not intend to raise a Christian son, my lord?"

"Yes, but I'm afraid there are many sons of the Church who do not hold the same heart as you," he replied.

"But are we not in the heart of Christendom? I've heard it called that, called Our Lady's Dowry, in fact…and yet has basic compassion really become such a foreign concept? Does that make any sense at all?" The young man exhaled. "How many tears she must shed over this place, then… especially over the clergy…"

"Now, Robin…"

"It's the truth, everyone knows it. The bishop's bought and sold, finery fattened and wine-slaked, and we all know about his indiscretions with the ladies. The Abbot of St. Mary's is little better, pocketing most of the collection plate for, shall we say, personal emergencies."

"There are still good priests about, lad," his father insisted.

"Assuredly," the young man agreed. "But you notice they rarely reach positions of power. The rotten ones have a knack for blocking their way. That means the good ones are left with nothing to do but wander about as mendicants until some noble house takes them on as chaplain or tutor if fortune smiles on them. But given the gourmet tastes of our lordly neighbors, it rarely does. They'll take the bishop's appointees instead. Sink it to hell, the Lady must be sick watching such a charade, and them bandying about her fair name to boot."

The older Locksley tilted his head, his gaze drifting to the little string of wooden beads hanging from his son's belt, a testament to his private devotion. "Been talking to her a lot lately, hmm?"

"Never really stopped."

"No, not since the death of your dear mother, grace to her soul." His eyes saddened. "You're just as stubborn as she was, you know. Stubborn and noble and with eyes as blue as the Virgin's cloak…"

"And don't tell me you didn't love her for the lot of it," he shot back. "And forsooth, are you not stubborn and blue-eyed as well, my lord?"

He snorted. "Heaven help you, lad, with both our bloodlines running to your heart. It's likely made you as unyielding as…" His eyes fell back to his beads. "As wood, my boy. Good English oak."

"But there's still the yew that must be reckoned with," Robin added, a touch of solemnity creeping into his tone. "That will teach me how to bend, as all men must do in the end."

Locksley looked down, purposely ignoring the double meaning, for they both knew it to be the tree of death as much as the tree of the bow. "Your mother would be glad to know you haven't forgotten how to say your 'aves'," he muttered. "She always had devotion to Mother Mary and wanted you to have it too."

"I think the Blessed Lady understands me best, after all this time."

"I'm sure she does," Lord Locksley agreed. "You've given her enough forest flowers over the years, ever since you were old enough to go hunting for them in the woods and take them to church to place at the feet of her statue." He raised an eyebrow. "Think she approves of some of your…less than lawful methods these days?"

"I think she gives me hints to help me out with them sometimes," he replied with a grin. "Besides…she had a son who got into trouble with the law too."

The lord winced. "Don't say that."

"Didn't mean to be too blasphemous," his son chuckled.

"It's not that, it's just…I don't like to compare the outcome." He eyed Robin pleadingly. "Son, you mustn't get caught. You must try to stay within the law, even if it's a hard thing to swallow. You've sown the seeds of envy since your first win at a tournament, out-shooting men twice your age with half as much effort. The Normans won't forget or forgive you for what you are…a Saxon, an upstart threat to their dominance. They'll bring you down if they can…and with you the estate."

"The law…" Robin blinked. "What does it mean anymore? And how can I promise to keep from going outside it? For is it not the law that prevents the common man from hunting in a forest teeming with game because his blood is too bad according to high and mighty royal standards? Well, then, off with his forefingers and out with his eyes should he be caught! And is it not the law that causes his wife to go a-begging or prostitute herself in the town? But if she be caught with a begging bowl in her hands, then brand her on the face, so the law says! Then what will happen when the children are made for to go stealing a slice of bread or an apple to quell the pain in their bellies? Well, now…we might chop off a hand, or perhaps, to make a better example, hang them up from the neck until dead. That should clear the streets of such nuisances, to be sure…"

"Robin…" his father rasped.

"You and I know the truth," his son finished. "It's only a matter of time for me. I respect you, my lord, far beyond anyone in this world. But we are not the same men. You gave me my name, and the honor of it. You've fought hard to keep a good grip on what's ours by right. But I fear we're all on borrowed time here, and sooner or later I must fight for more than marked off plots of soil. I know you wish to make a lord of me, but…what if that's not what I'm called to be in the end?"

"But you were born to lead…"

"Perhaps. But if the law serves only to beat down the weakest among us, I know I shall not be able to long abide within it. And if such is my fate, I will have to lead in my own way. I cannot turn a blind eye, not for my name, not for the estate, not even for you, father. I must travel my own path, wherever it leads."

The lord shuddered. "Then that path will lead into the forest, and the powers that rule with clean fingernails and polished courtesies will stop at nothing to crucify you. If you will not conform to them, they will seek to crush you, as they have to down to so many of our people before."

"So be it then," Robin responded. "But if I find myself with a price on my head, I shall live for as long as I may according to my wits, and in such a manner as will haunt the law, keep it from slumbering peacefully while others suffer, and perhaps shake it to its roots until its judgments are just. Perhaps a thorn in their side would do them some good."

"But don't you understand?" Lord Locksley blurted, exasperated. "That's just what they want, so they can pluck you out, and every Saxon of high estate in the Midlands with you! If you give it to them, we'll be the last of our kind in Nottinghamshire."

"Father, are we living only to preserve a legacy long ago lost? It's been over a hundred years since the Conqueror came…"

"And the destruction of our people continues!" the lord insisted. "More subtle now, but still they push us to the fringes, wiping out all we stand for, all that we've ever been and continue to be. These Normans…they don't understand us, or our ways, or our bonds."

"Yes, but it's not so clear cut," Robin retorted. "The FitzWalters are Norman, and they have honor to their name and treat their people well. And we both know there have been many Saxons who let power corrupt them just the same in our time of power…"

"Agh," his father spat. "The root of it, Robin, is that you fell head over heels for the FitzWalter lass and can't get her out of your head. Well, for all your praise of them, they'll not let her wed and bed any Saxon, and she'll have put you out of her heart in short order. I may have played at cordiality with her father, with joining our houses, what with you two young ones taking to each other as you did, but let's face facts. They think they're better than us, washed their hands of us once our accounts ran dry. That's why they saw fit to send her off to London, to get her away from the likes of you."

"She never wanted to go. You know that."

"And you've been flooded with letters from her, I suppose?"

"You think they let her write at will?" he challenged.

"She's been presented at court for over a year now, and she'll have been made a fine city lady. It'll be no more boyish mischief and tattered tunics for her. She's left behind the greenwood, lad, and you with it. She'll marry a wealthy lord far away, or if worse comes to worse, they'll wed her to squeamish Young Cavendish. She's gone for good, and there'll be no returning the same as you knew her. When push comes to shove, she'll play her part as any Norman would…"

"Not Marian," he responded quietly.

"You think all people are all as steadfast as you in their affections?" his father scoffed. "Think women, and the fickleness of their fancies, can be counted on?"

"I know Marian…just as you knew mother, and so trusted her to the core. That's what counts, the trust. Her heart's a part of the forest as much as mine, and she'll be called back to it, to this place. And when she is, nothing will stop her from returning. She's as headstrong as the sturdiest oak and as free as the wildest stream. She'll not let them marry her off to Cavendish. And I know she'll be back. "

"Can you not hear your own tongue?" his father grumbled. "It's not tuned for French, like hers! It's rough, like the language of the common folk on their farms. Because regardless of rank, it's our blood that binds us, and she doesn't have that. Her people spilled our blood, fought on the other side…"

"Father, listen," Robin tried to reason. "It doesn't matter to me whose grandsires or great-grandsires served under Harold or William at Hastings. We're all English now. It matters more to me what people, Saxon, Norman, or any other race, want to do with this England of ours. It's not about blood, but soul." He looked down. "That's it, that's what it's about with her and me. We're bound by that."

"They'll not stand our friends in the hard times coming," Lord Locksley predicted. "Mark my words, it's us against them, no two ways about it."

"Well, perhaps I'll do something to bring us together in the end."


End file.
